fallaces sunt rerum species
by blueasjazz
Summary: Fairytale!AU ; two-shot — the love of money is the root of all evil, and everything is a mockery in vanity. Things are not always what they seem. Companion!fic to 'nomen est omen'.
1. avaritia

**sequere pecuniam  
** —love of money is the root of all evil.

**starring. **Belgium and Netherlands.

**author's note.** You guys remember _nomen est omen_? Well, basically my interest in the 'verse is piqued again — I find immense enjoyment in singling out as well as mixing up different fairytale themes and pouring them into a Tomato!Gang-shaped mold :9  
Think of this particular work as a prequel to _nomen est omen_, okay? Or a perspective-flip, perhaps. We need more Netherlands/Belgium fantasy family-drama anyway.

**ratings/warnings. **Strong T. More second-person view and faux-surrealism. Manipulative!Netherlands (thank _harlots kiss better_ for that). Implied patricide, and slight incestuous subtext: y/y?

**summary. **listen clear and listen well, my boy — for she shall be your fatal flaw; your downfall and demise.

**. . .**

You knew him, once.

You wouldn't call him a devil, because you are as skeptical as your sister is superstitious, and you never had faith in sprinkling fae-dust and breadcrumbs to pave for yourself a path of return. You _violently_ wrestled your destiny's reins from the hands of Fate, taking measures you believe are necessary — you distinctly remember a carving knife that dripped beads of cherry-juice crimson; your mother's last smile and your father's last scream. Is something burning in the oven?

The jingle of gold coins set you free, in more ways than one.

Your sister is made of wide-eyed innocence, and you decide the tricks of your trade are not made for the likes of her. Wise men state that with great power comes great responsibility, so the mantle of your father — Lord _bless his soul_ — comes down like a boulder, heavy on your shoulders. You want to think this means something, but the color green and gold always manage to cover your vision, your better judgment; so in the end you think nothing at all. You might as well have buried your trinkets at the crossroads, you muse, as you fasten the chains of another gilded locket around your sister's fair, fair neck.

It feels like a deal with the devil, and you did not know yet the truth of your traitorous thoughts.

Your sister bids you goodnight at the chime of midnight, you do not reach for her and she does not ask you to. Her hands are cold but her eyes are dry. That, you suppose, is your consolation prize.

Curls the color of _gold_ and heaping goblets of wine spell out your doom, because you are boastful by nature, even when faced with death. Good, honest Lars — the 'tricks of your trade' may constitute as treason, for His Majesty desires gold more than anything; and the fill of your leather pouches and treasure chests may turn any human man green with envy.

(But what of the Fair Folk?)

A crooked, confident smile is your answer. You think there's a touch of too many yesterdays in a certain olivine pair of eyes. But you do not refuse.

"A bargain," he had said, unnerved by your hardened gaze purposefully pinned on that devil, that trickster. He smiles a smile that looks young and boyish, and you do not like that it looks so human. Like behind it lies wishes and wants and desires and _fear_, but then again, that's what you were banking on.

"A bargain?" you repeat.

"Three years," he nods. "Until the debt is owed."

The deal is sealed with the spilling of lies from the mouth of your sister — your dear, beautiful _zusje_ — who is blind to the wickedness of the world as she cries, "There is nothing in the mills but straw! Please, I beg of you, release my brother!"

You've told her many times that silence is _golden_, but she is stubborn and sinful and _so_ like you in many, many ways.

Her words are taken for the truth simply because she is a maiden and she is _fair_; malicious accusations are thrown at her while hidden beneath a dimpled smile, "Why, _mi bella_, then riddle me this — are you saying that the straw was _spun _into gold?"

Your sister is taken away and imprisoned in a gilded tower filled with straw, given three days to plead for her life. You decide that the young king is a cruel man who has a soft spot for irony; he is ruthless-yet-just and tyrannical-yet-valiant, perhaps undeserving of the golden, bejeweled crown sitting upon his head. You snarl at that trickster-devil with oiled, russet hair; you want to say that _this is not what I meant_, _my _zusje_ is not a payment for my debts_, but the words won't come.

(Because maybe she is. What else is a sister for? What good was she when your household name was slandered? What good was she when your family riches were slowly bitten off by ambitious, holier-than-thou nobles, akin to how hungry children will nibble gingerbread? What good was she when your cupboards were emptied and your windmills were burned, and your youngest brother's ribs began to show through his tattered shirt?)

_Take it back,_ you want to hiss at the trickster or devil or both. _Take all the riches you gave me and no debt shall be owed._

He looks amused. Or, at least, he's grinning again. You cannot read that sardonic smile any more than you can understand the agelessness behind it, and your sister's fair, fair hands slips in and out of your mind's eye like silver. You dream hazy dreams of the color gold and of morality that bleaches gray — _like father, like son_.

"Is that truly what you want?"

You cannot answer.

Surrounded by straw, your sister weeps, and another bargain is made.

**. . .**


	2. superbia

**vanitas, vanitatum  
**—everything is a mockery in vanity.

s**tarring. **Spain and Belgium.

**author's note. **The last installment was heavily inspired by _Hansel and Gretel_ and _The Girl With No Hands_. This one centers on our leading lady Bel along with our 'young king' character — a.k.a Spain — and will have multiple elements of fairytales that contain (deconstructions of) Prince Charming(s). Also, bits of _Puss in Boots_, because. The fuel of alternate character interpretation in that particular story is just _huge_, you guys — the _Shrek _version notwithstanding :9

**ratings/warnings. **Oh, you know the drill. But writing this blurb was particularly hard...it may seem all over the place, but I've grown tired of editing this over and over. Heh.

**summary. **she is his Lady Luck, and fortune favors him because she is a fickle woman and he an even more fickle man.

**. . .**

Your dreams are the cold weight of gold in your palms and the heat of glory in your head and the victory of battle under your breast.

You may be young, but you are king; you may be king, but you knows full-well that your ancestors did not establish their nobility by finding an empire. They came to power by wrestling it away from the ruling class — _viciously_. The blood coursing through your veins are not those of royalty, but of tyrants and war-mongers.

And _he _knows.

By the time you are of nineteen summers old, your word is law, and the deceitful golden girl with the spinner's hands is brought to you in a mockery of a trial. You are her judge, jury and executioner; but she is so lovely and _fair_ that you simply cannot let her go — there is something about her chartreuse eyes that stir up something within your blood tainted with megalomania.

He had came to you in the guise of a child. Was his purpose to mock you, the people's perception of you? A child-king who knew nothing, who was foolish enough to take the throne while the bodies of your iron-willed father and your Fair-blooded mother were still warm on the ground. You had gritted your teeth and forced out a strained smile of greeting. Handsome as a lion but with twice the blood thirst.

He did not bow.

Instead, he had eyed you with a bemused sort of scorn, greeted you in a way that was almost effortlessly imbued with bleeding mockery. You were confused by this lack of respect, but you did not object. Maybe, you were simply afraid.

You dubbed him 'Romano' and he scoffed in disdain.

Three nights pass, the girl spins and spins and the thread glitters and gleams. The royal treasury overflows, and that _feeling_ overcomes you once more. Disbelief still bites the outskirts of your wits, but she is beautiful and she is golden, and you may not be able to take a liar as your own — but is she one? The burnt spinning wheel claims otherwise, so you wed her.

You might have loved her best like that. High up in a tower, lovely like the dawn. They named her not after swiftness or sage or valor; but she embodies them all, a brilliant beauty that looks far too tender, praying for salvation from a trickster-devil-destroyer who is juvenile compared to you. She is your golden girl, born to be a queen.

You need her because she's beautiful, because she's innocent, and because you are young and in love. You need her because she smiles feather-light and just right, because you don't know a thing about her, and that means she can be _anything _(you want).

Her work — _his_, your mind races, _his work_ — the weight of those countless golden bullions shall be melted to fill the void of your (beastly, monstrous) heart.

(_you don't know your good fortune_.)

She grows into her velveteen ball-gowns and her bejeweled tiaras, her innocence is traded for something else — let's call it cunning or deceit, or just wickedness that is obviously bred down deep into her bones — _have you heard of the young Master Merchant Johannsen, brother to our queen_? She stands to the right of your throne and whispers into your ear, she speaks her mind without counting the cost.

(_how about a cask stuck round with sharp nails, drag it through the streets?_)

You think you love the way her mind works. Twisted wicked clever cunning, but too much by half and once again, you are afraid. She is no longer the brittle, frightened girl forced to spin straw into gold. She is your _golden_ girl, born to be a queen.

She strokes her belly with an expression that is undecipherable, half-lidded eyes and sad, rosebud lips. You reach out with one cautious hand, but something rustles at the window and you think you see a pair of olivine orbs gleam, glaring at you shrewdly. Your wife; your marvelous, beautiful queen, turns to stare at you, asking, "Is something the matter, my lord?"

"The child," you say. She does not smile. "How is the child?"

_(a gift, a gift for his royal highness the king from my most bountiful master—)_

Your hold on your wife is like that of a cat's claws — possessive, quietly frantic. You no longer toy with her like the time when you first met, when you were predator and she your prey, when her livelihood rested only upon a brisk flick of your wrist — how have things _changed._ You have heard that three is a magic number — three years, three days, three nights, three men.

You have taken to sleeping with your hand wrapped tightly around your wife's.

(—_the marquis of carrabas—_)

You do not know yet that you rule over a kingdom built of straw and lies. Behind you appears a smile that is feline and Cheshire in nature; shifting eyes that are a mix of gold and green. _His_ curls of auburn haunt you, but you banish the thoughts away. You firmly kiss you beautiful, golden girl; begging behind closed eyelids that your child shall not be born with olivine peridots.

Your wife, your queen — she is silent, your muscled arms constricting her waist, your unborn child (yours, yours, _yours_). You murmur words of romance and poetry. You curse him, 'Romano', the trickster devil, for tormenting you so. Vanity is a luxury you can no longer afford.

You know that is not his true name.

(_but which are you_?)

**. . .**


End file.
